The Patron Saint of Bachelors

You’re wearing someone else’s shoes.
They’ve cramped your stride to a limp.
Take them off and leave them neatly
for another man with smaller feet
who can stand to stand so still.
It’s good to see you unencumbered.
Let’s walk away in perfect time,
two childless men with all our hair,
only cigarettes and rolls of notes
in the pockets above our hearts.
Our dogs will bring us all we need,
lick our wounds, fetch us bread.
Stick with me. You’ll have no problem
finding rooms with deeper rugs
in which to dig your naked toes.